The phone line went dead. Blackwell was smiling, that cruel satisfaction gleaming in his eyes—the kind of predatory look a business shark gets when closing in on his next prey. In his office, perched high in a Silicon Valley skyscraper where glass walls framed San Francisco's glittering skyline, he leaned back in his leather executive chair. Computer screens on his desk displayed flashing graphs—profit margins, deals, and perhaps those underground contracts that were the true source of his power.
In California's ruthless business world, a man like Blackwell was a living legend. On the surface, he was the king of tech and wine industries. But beneath that polished exterior lurked a mafia boss who raked in millions through dark deals—contract killings, human trafficking, and worse. He smiled because this next move was part of his master plan: pulling Evelyn into his company, where he could control her completely.
Meanwhile, my sister and I were having breakfast. The mansion's dining room was flooded with golden California sunlight. The table was laden with freshly brewed coffee, flaky croissants, and California-style avocado toast. Alisha smiled at me, her face still showing traces of last night's exhaustion, though she was trying hard to appear normal.
"Ev, try this yogurt. It's organic, from a local farm," she said, as if we were just normal sisters—not trapped in this dark, twisted family dynamic.
Just then, the door opened and Henry walked in. He'd spent the entire night at his uncle's place and had just returned this morning. He looked tired, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but his entrance immediately changed the room's atmosphere. He wore a casual t-shirt and joggers, looking like he'd come straight from college.
Alisha saw him and immediately said, "Beta Henry, come have some breakfast."
The word "beta" (son) hit my ears like a bomb exploding. I started coughing violently. Henry was part of my love story, my passion—and now Alisha was his stepmother? My coughing fit was so intense that my throat felt completely blocked.
"What happened, Evelyn?" Alisha asked with concern.
"Nothing, nothing," I managed to say between coughs, but my eyes involuntarily drifted toward Henry, who stood frozen in shock.
Alisha continued, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. "Beta Henry, give your masi (aunt) some water."
"Masi?" That word nearly knocked Henry off his feet. He literally stumbled, his legs buckling beneath him. Quickly regaining his composure, he rushed over and helped me drink water, his hand trembling as he held the glass to my lips. His fingers brushed against my skin—a split-second electric shock that sent flashes of last night's memories coursing through my mind.
I drank the water, and our eyes met—a silent exchange communicating just how confused and twisted this situation had become.
Alisha didn't notice anything. She was simply happy that the family was together. "Henry, sit down. I made your favorite—granola with berries," she said, trying her best to be a good new stepmother.
Henry sat down, but his face remained tense. We ate breakfast, but an awkward silence hung heavy in the air. Usually, at California breakfast tables, people talk about the weather, the stock market, or the next wine tasting event—but here, every bite was loaded with suspense.
Suddenly, Alisha's phone rang. She picked it up. "Hello?"
On the other end was Blackwell's voice—low and commanding.
"Hello Eli, I have a job for your sister at my company. You mentioned it the other day, didn't you? Starting today, she'll be the CEO of my wine factory."
Alisha quickly agreed, relief washing over her face. When she hung up, she smiled at me broadly.
"Ev, good news!"
"What happened, sis?" I asked.
She explained everything—Blackwell's wine factory in California's famous Napa Valley, and the CEO position waiting for me.
"It's your dream job, Ev. Art history background with business acumen—perfect for wine branding."
I jumped up with excitement. "Really? Oh my God!" But inside, doubt gnawed at me. What was Blackwell's real motive?
Alisha continued, "You need to go there right now and take charge. It's urgent—next quarter's deals are on the line."
I rushed to get ready. Upstairs in my room, I packed my bag—a professional black blazer with a white top, and high heels. Looking at myself in the mirror, did nineteen-year-old me actually look like a CEO? Young executives were common in California, with twentysomethings running startups in Silicon Valley all the time. But this was Blackwell's company. Was this a trap?
Henry appeared at the door. "Let me drop you off."
"No, it's okay. I'll take a bus or taxi. You stay and take care of the house and Alisha," I replied.
He agreed reluctantly, but worry filled his eyes. "Be careful, Ev."
I quickly finished getting ready and left the house, hailing a taxi. San Francisco's streets were clogged with traffic—people in their SUVs holding coffee cups, caught in rush hour. The taxi driver turned on music, classic California rock—The Eagles' "Hotel California," which felt ironically appropriate.
The factory was in Napa Valley, about an hour's drive away. Along the route, the scenery transformed—from the city's towering skyscrapers to lush green vineyards. California's wine country is world-famous—rolling hills covered in grapevines, tasting rooms where tourists come from all over. But Blackwell's factory, Blackwell Vineyards, was a grand estate. On the surface, it appeared to be luxury wine production, but rumors suggested it was merely a cover for his dark business operations.
The taxi stopped at the gate, and a security guard checked me in. "Miss Evelyn? Welcome, you're the new CEO."
I entered, and the company's atmosphere hit me immediately. This was no small factory—it was a vast compound where wine production lines hummed with activity. The entrance featured a grand lobby with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and walls adorned with awards—"Best Cabernet 2024" and similar accolades. The air carried the sweet, fermented smell of wine mixed with the hum of machinery.
The receptionist, a young woman in a sharp suit, greeted me professionally. "Miss Evelyn, welcome to Blackwell Vineyards. Mr. Blackwell has instructed that you start immediately. Let me show you to your office."
She led me through corridors where employees busied themselves—some analyzing data on laptops, others testing wine samples. The atmosphere was professional but carried an undercurrent of tension. People whispered in hushed tones, falling silent whenever Blackwell's name was mentioned.
One section housed the production floor—huge tanks where grapes were being crushed, conveyor belts filling bottles in synchronized rhythm. Workers in uniforms moved about, but exhaustion marked their faces—probably from long hours, despite California's labor laws.
My office was on the top floor, with glass walls offering a panoramic view of the vineyards. On the desk sat a computer, files, and a welcome note: "Welcome to the family, Evelyn. - Richard Blackwell."
I sat down, but my mind swirled with suspense. What comes next?
A meeting was scheduled—with the executive team. The receptionist introduced me. "This is Miss Evelyn, our new CEO."
The team consisted of about ten people—marketing head, production manager, finance officer. They all looked shocked. "She's so young?" one whispered under their breath.
I gave a speech. "I'm excited to join. Let's focus on innovation—new brands, sustainable practices."
But tension permeated the meeting. One manager spoke up, "But sir Blackwell's special projects? Those are... private."
"What kind?" I asked.
Silence.
Later, I checked the files—revenue reports, but some folders were hidden, password-protected. Were these related to his mafia operations? Perhaps drugs or human trafficking hidden within wine exports?
In the afternoon, I took a factory tour. The production area buzzed with machinery—bottling lines where robotic arms worked with precision. A worker showed me around. "This is our premium line—exported to Europe."
But in the back rooms, something darker lurked—locked doors with "Restricted" signs.
"What's in there?" I asked.
"Only Mr. Blackwell has access," the worker replied nervously.
An atmosphere of suspense pervaded everything—employees seemed loyal but frightened. California's wine industry is cutthroat, with fierce competition from Sonoma. Business wars where companies try to ruin each other are common. What was Blackwell's next target?
Evening fell. I worked—emails, plans. Then my phone rang. Henry.
"Ev, are you okay? That place... be careful."
"I'm fine. But something feels off," I replied.
---
At Blackwell Vineyards' office in San Francisco's Napa Valley, the golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows. Outside, the verdant vineyard vines swayed in the breeze, with workers busy harvesting grapes. This was a common sight in California's wine country—tourists came for wine tastings, participated in local festivals—but the atmosphere at Blackwell's company was different. On the surface, everything looked perfect: modern architecture, glass walls offering a panoramic valley view, and inside, a corporate vibe where employees sipped coffee while working on laptops. But beneath the surface, this was a labyrinth—business wars, secret deals, and a piece of Blackwell's cruel empire.
I, Evelyn, sat in my new CEO chair, checking files. Reports were scattered across my desk—revenue forecasts, marketing plans, and some password-protected folders that piqued my curiosity. My mind raced: Was this job an opportunity or a trap? CEO at nineteen—in California, it was possible, where young entrepreneurs ran startups, but Blackwell's name attached to it made me uneasy.
I focused on a report—next quarter's export deals, wine shipments to European markets. My fingers moved across the keyboard, taking notes. The office interior was luxurious: leather chair, wooden desk, and a side table with fresh flowers—white lilies, probably from a local California florist. The outside view was distracting—sunset was approaching over the hills, the golden hour perfect for photographs. But my mind was on Henry.
This morning's scene—"beta" and "masi"—still echoed in my ears. Our relationship had become taboo now, but that attraction wasn't diminishing.
Suddenly, without knocking, the office door opened. I lifted my head and saw Henry entering. He was dressed casually—jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers, like he'd come straight from college. His hair looked windswept, probably from the drive. I was shocked to see him there.
"You're here? But didi is alone at home!"
Henry closed the door, his eyes scanning me. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. I came straight from college to see you."
His voice was low but intense—like a predator focused on his prey. He slowly walked around the table to where I sat in my chair. I pushed the files aside, but my heart was racing. Surprise visits like this were rare in California's corporate offices, but Henry's confidence—he was Blackwell's son, the company's heir—gave him privilege.
I stood up, trying to maintain distance. "Henry, this is an office. We can't..."
But he came closer and grabbed my waist. His hands were strong, warm, and that touch sent chills across my skin. "What are you doing? Someone might come in," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. The office's glass door was transparent, but the blinds were down, offering some privacy.
He smiled—that smile that always melted me. "Don't worry. No one will come without knocking," he said, his hands sliding down my back.
I continued checking files, trying to ignore him, but he came up behind me. Slowly, he opened my pants' zipper, then pulled them down.
"We can't do this here, Henry," I protested.
But it had no effect on him. He was stubborn, like those young California men who break rules at parties. Then he pulled down my panties too.